


Melancholia

by ScreamingFae



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Mental Institution, Asylum, Mental Health Issues, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-30
Updated: 2017-08-30
Packaged: 2018-12-21 19:12:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11950818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScreamingFae/pseuds/ScreamingFae
Summary: It's the year 1928, and Harry James Potter has been committed to an insane asylum for a disturbing crime he swears he didn't commit. Within the walls of the asylum many horrors are revealed, as the reign that Doctor Thomas Riddle and his matriarchal assistant Bellatrix Lestrange is not a kind one. / Heavily influenced by AHS: Asylum!





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> \- Thank you so much to superagentv for your immense help with this fic, as well as many people at Hogwarts for giving me concept ideas.
> 
> \- This is a Muggle!AU as well as an Asylum!AU, so please take that into consideration before reading.

****Chapter One****  

**_**_1993_ ** _ **

 

“Come __on,__ Ezra!” the oldest of the three cousins called back to the youngest and only boy.

 

“Yeah, hurry up. That stupid camera is holding you back.”

 

“Why don’t you just ditch it?”

 

“Shut up!” Ezra Potter snapped, red-faced, as he heaved his way up the stairs to the decrepit old building. “You told me we were coming here to take pictures, Dahlia. You __promised__.”

 

Dahlia Rose Weasley was stood at the top of the stone stairs, her hands on her hips. Her dark red hair was hanging loose and flowing in the gentle breeze, and she had a determined, mischievous, look in her brown eyes. “You can take pictures,” she replied. “Just as long as you promise not to be a stupid baby.” She reached out as Ezra reached the top of the steps and seized the camera that was around his neck, yanking hard until the strap snapped.

 

“Hey!” he yelled, trying to snatch it back. She held it above his head, where he couldn’t reach. “Lucinda, tell her.”

 

Lucinda Potter was the same age as Dahlia, give or take a couple of months, and the two were the best of friends. However, Lucinda always did have a soft spot for Ezra, and it was hard for her to choose between the pair of them when they were bickering. “Stop being a baby, Ezra,” she muttered, folding her arms. “She’s not going to break it.”

 

“It’s a Kodak SLR!” he cried, tears beginning to well up in his eyes. “A nineteen-ninety original. My dad bought me it for my birthday! Dahlia, please!”

 

“Uncle Albus isn’t going to miss this poxy camera. Not when Grandad Harry left him so much money.” Dahlia was sniggering, dancing on the balls of her feet as she waved the camera precariously.

 

“Oh, Dahlia,” Lucinda suddenly snapped, growing fed up of the arguing. “Give it back to him and lets get this over with.” She hugged herself tightly as she looked up at the engraved letters above the large, oak doors. __“Aspiring Asphodel Sanitorium,”__ she read out loud, shivering. “Creepy.”

 

“There is nothing creepy about this place. This is where everything __started.”__ Dahlia threw the camera at Ezra, and he caught it expertly, clutching it possessively to his chest. “You two are such a pair of __babies.__ ”

 

Lucinda raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean; this is where everything started?”

 

“Don’t you listen to anything that our grandparents have told us?” Dahlia replied snippily, stretching her arms above her head. “My mum was conceived inside this very hospital.”

 

“Aunt Rose didn’t tell you that!” Lucinda interjected.

 

“Well, no,” Dahlia grinned. “But it’s probably true. And your dad probably was, too.”

 

“Rubbish,” muttered Lucinda. “You’re just trying to creep us out.”

 

Dahlia shrugged. “Maybe.” She paused before putting her hand on the rusty old door knob. “But Grandma Hermione has a picture of Nana Ginny looking rather pregnant __long__ before Harry came out of here.” She winked dramatically, and Lucinda rolled her eyes. “Come on, let’s go in.”

 

Ezra’s eyes almost popped out of his head. “We can’t go __inside__ ,” he hissed. “There’s a sign!” he pointed up at a large, metal sign that was nailed firmly to the door. __Urban Explorers Keep Out—Dangerous Territory.__

 

“Ooh, a sign,” Dahlia chirped in a sing-song voice. “You can wait out here then, while me and Lucinda go in.”

 

Lucinda looked alarmed. “Erm, yeah. You can wait out here.”

 

* * *

**_**_1928_ ** _ **

 

__“LOCAL ADOLESCENT TURNED MURDERER!”__ screamed the headline of the latest edition of __The Skeeter,__ the most prominent newspaper of the decade. __“Harry James Potter, son of wealthy property owners James and Lily Potter, has been discovered at the scene of a violent crime - the murder of his very own parents. In the early hours of this morning, neighbours discovered the two adult Potters lying dead in a puddle of their own blood, whilst fifteen-year-old Potter lay sleeping not too far from their bodies.__ The Skeeter __has much more to report on this disturbing case, but for now, we have been told that Mr. Harry Potter has pleaded not guilty in front of the court of law. The good judge has deemed Mr. Potter unfit to stand trial, and therefore he will remain in secure imprisonment at the Aspiring Asphodel Sanitarium.__

 

__“The Aspiring Asphodel Sanitarium no longer treats those afflicted with Tuberculosis, but is now a maximum security Asylum for the clinically insane. Mr. Potter will remain there until a doctor can ascertain whether or not he is truly in control of his faculties, or whether he will be fit to face the Death Penalty.”_ _

 

 

Harry James Potter tugged at the bonds which restrained his torso, the straight jacket too tight to breath in. He wasn’t dangerous, but this made for a better show; flashes from the cameras a clear indicator that the media was eating it up, shackles which wrapped his wrists and ankles tightly, as two police officers hauled him up the stairs to the Asylum. “Listen to me!” he cried, though he was wasting his energy. Hundreds of citizens crowded around the entryway to the Asylum, many whom were holding the large, flashing cameras. “Why is no-one listening to me? I didn’t kill them! I didn’t do it!”

 

One of the large oak doors opened slightly, not quite enough for the public to see inside, and the officers pulled Harry through. The door shut sharply behind them, and Harry was met with the gloomy, dark corridor that lay ahead of him.

 

The corridor was large and empty, with two staircases leading to opposite directions ahead of him. There were various archways on the ground floor that led to equally dismal looking corridors, and a large crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling; but there were no lights shining from it. The only light that shone into the corridor was from the narrow skylights way up ahead.

 

“Welcome, Mr. Potter.” The feminine voice was crisp. Harry’s gaze landed on a pale woman standing beside a metal gurney. She had jet-black hair which was pulled neatly into a tight bun, adorned by a nurse’s cap, and she was dressed in a pressed candy striper uniform with a bright white apron at her front. “My name is Bellatrix Lestrange, but you will call me Matron. Onto the table, there’s a good boy.” A wide, toothy grin spread across her features, and Harry shuddered.

 

“I can walk,” he murmured. “I don’t need to get on the gurney.”

 

Bellatrix reached into the pocket of her apron and removed a large, ominous looking needle and a syringe filled with a brownish liquid. “Are we going to have a problem, Mr. Potter?”

Harry shook his head as he felt the sharp sting of the metal slip into his skin, the cool of the substance coating his veins.

 

Pushing him forward, the policemen didn’t unlock Harry’s shackles until he was next to the gurney; where they proceeded to push him down, banging his head against the metal, holding him while Bellatrix fastened several large leather straps across his body. When she was satisfied that he was secure, she turned her attention to the officers. “I can take it from here, boys.” She positioned herself behind the gurney and began pushing it through the corridor.

 

As she maneuvered him through the dismal corridors, Harry cringed as he heard screams and wails coming from every direction. People in white gowns were standing, faces deadpan, in the corridors; some not saying a word and some crying out. “What is happening here?” he demanded to know. “I thought this was a hospital?” When Bellatrix didn’t reply immediately, he tried to crane his head back to look at her. “Nurse?”

 

The gurney stopped suddenly, tilting upright as he felt her nails dig into his arm. “Matron,” she stated, waiting. When he said nothing, her nails dug in further and he gasped. “What do you call me?”

 

“Matron.”

 

“There’s a good little murderer,” she cooed, stroking his face and turning his chin to make him observe his surroundings. He felt the pain of her sharp nails raking across his face as the words slowly registered through the drug-induced fog, her lips next to his ears; hissing like a snake coiling around its prey. “This is a hospital for the deranged and demented, Mr. Potter,” she explained. “Those that come in, never go out.” She released a short, shrill cackle, and Harry shuddered.

 

“But,” he whimpered. “You’re supposed to cure people.”

 

“Only cure for the likes of you is death, Mr. Potter,” she spat, smiling. “Do we understand one another?”

 

Through the drugs and the terror, he understood; he understood easily.

 

“Here we are,” she said, after what seemed like hours of being pushed through the Asylum. She pushed him through a narrow doorway and into a room that had no window, and closed the metal door behind them.

 

After Harry was unstrapped from the gurney, he got a good look around his ‘room’. It was little more than a prison cell—in fact, Harry was quite sure that the prisons of today were in much better conditions than this horrendous place. It was about a metre and a half in diameter, and there was nothing but a pile of straw on the floor and some shackles attached to the wall.

 

Before Harry even had a chance to stretch his limbs, Bellatrix shoved him against the wall; locking his wrists into the shackles tightly, leaving him stood crucifix-style. “How long will it be until the doctor sees me?” he asked. “How long will I stand like this?”

 

Instead of a reply, he was given a sharp slap across the face, making him jump—again. Bellatrix glared at him, a cruel smirk on her lips. “Naughty,” she hissed, her nails resting dangerously over his pulse.“‘Excuse me, __Matron.__ ” She dug her nails into his neck, tilting her head to the side. “Understood, Potter?” She backhanded his other cheek, not giving him the chance to reply.

 

Harry nodded glumly.

 

“You’re lucky to __stand__  here at all,” she sneered. “The Doctor wanted to have you iced right away, but I said you needed some time to,” she enunciated her next words, “ _ _think__  about what you’ve done.” She headed towards the door, and turned on her heel to leave the room, plunging Harry into total darkness.

 

* * *

**_**_1993_ ** _ **

 

Lucinda and Dahlia stood in the main hallway of the old Asylum, looking around the debris. Light streamed through the shattered skylights above, illuminating the remains of the architecture.

 

“It’s beautiful,” Lucinda murmured, her eyes gazing around at the grad pillars, the intricately carved window frames, and the ivory statues in various states of disrepair.  

 

“And such horrible things happened in such a beautiful place,” Dahlia answered gleefully. “Are you ready to explore?”

 

Lucinda glanced back at the main entrance, where the door was propped open. Ezra was sitting on the main steps, clutching his camera. “I suppose. Let’s go.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

** **Chapter Two** **

 

**_**_1928_ ** _ **

 

Hermione Jean Granger flew through the streets, her hair billowing wildly behind her as she dragged her friend Ronald Weasley alongside her. “Her...mi...on...e…” he gasped, trying to yank his arm out of her grip so that he could catch his breath. She whirled around to face him, glowering.

 

“What?” she snapped irritably. “We have to hurry up and get to Harry!”

 

Ron pulled a crumpled up newspaper cutting out of his pocket and pointed to the date. “Hermione, Harry was only sentenced yesterday. Don’t you think that you should give it a little time before you go bursting in there? I mean…”

 

Hermione’s eyes narrowed. “You mean what?”

 

Ron shrugged and looked away. “I just...look, why didn’t your boss tell you that she was going to publish that article about Harry, anyway?” Ron slumped down on a nearby wall, and Hermione followed, her arms folded.

 

“Rita didn’t tell me about it exactly __because__ I’m friends with Harry!” she rolled her eyes expressively. “I’m only an intern for __The Skeeter__ , Ronald, not a fully-fledged reporter. We didn’t all have a legacy handed down to us from our older brother.”

 

Ron scowled. “I didn’t ask for that job, Hermione. It’s not my fault Freddie’s old shop pays well.” He paused. “And anyway, didn’t your father get you that job, as he’s Miss Skeeter’s tooth-doctor?”

 

“Only because I asked him to. Of what importance is that, anyway?”

 

Ron shrugged again. “I just don’t think ladies should be working, especially not at our age.”

 

“I want my independence!” she rubbed her temples irritably. “Anyway, this has nothing to do with the matter at hand! You could’ve at least tried to get Harry a job at your shop!” Hermione deflated onto the wall besides him. “No wonder the authorities believe the lies about what he __apparently__ did. He was so bored and depressed, it would be so easy to pin this murder on him.”

 

“Hermione…” Ron’s breath caught in his throat when Hermione shot a glare in his direction. “I’m not saying he __did__ do it...but...don’t you think you should consider that he __might__ have done it, before you go in there?”

 

“What are you saying, Ronald?” Hermione jumped up from her seat on the wall, her hands on her hips.

 

Ron pressed his lips together, struggling to make eye contact with Hermione. “Well...everybody thinks Harry is a little bit...odd. He’s still my best friend, and I would never judge him for it...but his imagination is a little vivid.”

 

“Ron, I haven’t got the faintest idea what you are talking about.”

 

“I shouldn’t tell you,” muttered Ron. “Harry made me __promise__ not to tell anyone when I found out.”

 

“Found out what?” Hermione threw her hands in the air. “Ronald, this is not the time to be hiding things about Harry! Whatever it is that you know may help Harry!”

 

Ron groaned and ran his fingers through his hair. “He wrote...these weird stories, okay? His father found them, and...well, he wasn’t happy.”

 

“What stories, Ron?”

 

“These strange stories about magic and wizards and...flying broomsticks!” Ron burst out, glaring back up at Hermione. “He wrote __loads__ of them! He hid them all in his desk, because he __knew__ what people would think if someone found them. They would think he was crazy, and he would have ended up at the Asphodel before his mother and father were killed.”

 

“I don’t understand why this is a big deal,” Hermione sounded exasperated. “Lots of people write stories, Ronald. They’re just __stories.__ ”

 

“They were more than stories. They were crazy, and his father thought so too.”

 

Hermione put a hand to her lips, shocked.

 

“He was talking to Harry about him going into work with him for a few days a week, so he could start learning the ropes of the business. Harry had confessed to his father that he wanted to be a creative writer, not work in the property business.James was awfully angry. I mean, Harry is the __heir__ to their fortune and the only one who could carry on their business, seeing as Lily and James never had another child.”

 

“What happened?” Hermione asked.

 

“Well, this only happened a few weeks ago. James dismissed these stories as rubbish, insisting that his son wasn’t going to be a __writer,”__ Ron took a dramatic breath, __“__ and then Lily and James wound up dead.”

 

There was a long silence.

 

“So this is why you think that Harry murdered his parents,” Hermione murmured, looking down at her fingernails.

 

“I just don’t think that the possibility should be overlooked.”

 

Hermione shoved her hands in her pockets, and glowered at Ron. “Well, I don’t care about any stories. Harry __loved__ his parents, and I know he wouldn’t do anything to hurt them. I have the utmost belief in Harry, and I’m going to see him.” She paused. “Are you coming or not?”

 

Ron continued to avoid Hermione’s gaze.

 

“I see,” she muttered, shaking her head. “You’re supposed to be Harry’s best friend,Ron I can’t say I’m not disappointed.”

 

* * *

 

 “You can sit in there while you wait.” The orderly who showed Hermione to the Day Room was a large, brutish woman, with a square head and piggish little eyes. The name on her badge read ‘Alecto’, and her overall demeanour made Hermione quite uncomfortable. She had slammed shut the Day Room door as soon as Hermione had entered, and the click of the lock echoed behind her.

 

Immediately, she turned around and battered her fist on the door. “Excuse me!” she shouted, feeling extremely nervous. Surely it wasn’t legal to lock her in here when she wasn’t a patient.

 

A small square of the door slid aside, and Alecto’s piggy little eyes were visible. “Miss Granger,” she muttered in a bored tone.

 

“Why have you locked us in?” Hermione demanded to know. “This is a violation of human rights. I’m not a patient here, and the patients don’t need to be locked in! Surely—”

 

“—Miss Granger,” the woman took a breath and rolled her eyes. “You are in the Day Room of a __lunatic__  asylum. There are nearly fifty high-risk patients who would, at first opportunity, gut you like a pig just to gain access to one of your bones  just to sharpen it, and then attempt to harm someone into inside the facility or outside. Luckily for you, we take every precaution, like locking the doors, and preventing access to  their...what was it you said?” her voice dropped to a sneer. “ _ _Human rights__. The agreement you signed upon entering the hospital stated that you would be locked in this room during your visit with Mr. Potter.”

 

Hermione stood still, her mouth slightly slack. She had been in such a rush to get in and see Harry that she hadn’t even properly read the agreement before allowing Alecto to take her to the Day Room. “I see,” she replied, feeling extremely stupid. “My apologies.” Alecto snapped the viewing-door shut, and Hermione turned around to find a quiet seat to wait for Harry.

 

She was met with nearly fifty pairs of suspicious eyes, all staring at her. Some were sitting at tables and twiddling their thumbs, but the majority were in various other states of distress. As Hermione wandered over to an empty seat, she drank in the horrifying scene of the day room.

 

One older man was strapped up against the wall with leather belts so tight that Hermione could see his skin bulging over them. She had first assumed he was staring at her like everyone else, but she realised his eyes were empty; he was simply staring into space. There was a crusty trail of old vomit on his chin and down the front of his white shirt. There was a dark patch of urine on the front of his trousers.

 

One hysterical, middle-aged woman was stood by the door, screaming and wailing incoherently, all the while beating her head violently against the stone wall. Her forehead was grazed and bleeding, but she seemed unaware of the pain.

 

Many patients were simply sitting in chairs that were against the walls of the room, their eyes dazed and unfocused, dribble running down their chin and their arms strapped tightly into strait jackets. Hermione cringed, wondering just what method of ‘treatment’ was being instilled on these people.

 

She noted that most patients looked no more unusual than she did. Two dark haired young men sat at a table not far from her, whispering and shooting glances over at her. Another man sat with them, although he wasn’t involved in their conversation. He watched her intently, smoking deeply from a thinly rolled cigarette.

 

Worst of all was a man sitting in the nearest corner and gawping at her, whilst grinning and licking his lips. She stared back at him bemusedly for a few minutes, until she noticed the way he was furiously beating his hand under the baggy front of his shirt. Mortified, she pulled her chair around, making sure that she wasn’t in his general line of sight any longer. Just as Hermione was jumping out of her chair, no longer able to stand the Day Room, the main doors swung open.

 

Two male orderlies pushed Harry Potter through the Day Room, and pushed him down roughly into the seat opposite Hermione. “We’ll be just over there if this one tries anything, ma’am,” said the larger orderly, offering Hermione a wink. “But Matron has been giving him lots of nice treatment, so you shouldn’t have any problems.” He sniggered and nudged the other orderly. Hermione glanced at their name badges: Scabior and Amycus.

 

“That won’t be necessary,” she muttered quietly, and focused on Harry as the orderlies wandered to the other side of the Day Room, sitting down in seats where they could keep a close eye on Harry.

 

“Hermione,” murmured Harry. His voice was raspy and weak, and Hermione’s heart lurched sadly. He wasn’t wearing his spectacles anymore, and his hair was mussed up and dirty. There were various grazes and bruises on his face, and he looked a little too tightly strapped into his strait jacket.

 

“Let me see if I can loosen that a little bit.” Hermione edged around Harry so that she could reach the back of his jacket. She pulled at the straps, and noticed that there were several padlocks securing the strait jacket at his back.

 

“Ma’am!” one of the orderlies called out, making both Harry and Hermione jump. Hermione sat back down in her seat swiftly, placing her hands on her lap.

 

“I’m sorry,” she said, glancing at Harry apologetically.

 

“It’s okay,” he replied quietly. “I’m getting used to having my arms in this position now.” He paused, and looked down at the table. “Hermione, I promise you. I didn’t do what the papers are saying—I swear.”

 

“I believe you,” Hermione said quickly. Harry blinked.

 

“You do?”

 

She nodded determinedly. “I never doubted you for a minute.”

 

“What about Ron?” Harry’s voice was strained. He was already concerned about Ron’s absence, Hermione knew.

 

“I…” Hermione bit her lip, wondering how she could break the news. “It’s not that he doesn’t want to believe you, Harry…”

 

“He doesn’t believe me,” Harry finalised, his voice suddenly stoic and neutral. “I understand.”

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

Harry was silent for a while.

 

“Harry,” Hermione whispered. “What’s been happening to you in here?”

 

“How long has it been?” Harry replied. “How long have I been in here?”

 

“Barely twenty-four hours.”

 

“It feels like longer.” Harry sighed, and leaned his head back in his chair uncomfortably. Hermione wished that she could undo the restrictive jacket, but even if she knew how to pick a lock, the orderlies were eyeballing them carefully. “I still haven’t seen the doctor. I was locked in a room whilst shackled to a wall for God-knows how long, and I haven’t been brought anything to eat or drink. Every time I ask Matron something…” Harry turned his cheek, so that Hermione could see the worst of the bruising.

 

“This is barbaric,” she whispered, her eyes wide. “I...I don’t know what I can do.” She reached for her handbag suddenly. “I have a drink...if that helps.”

 

“They’ll never let you,” Harry hissed.

 

Hermione turned to glance at the orderlies, and sighed with relief. They had finally decided to intervene with the man who was violently masturbating in the corner; one of the orderlies was dragging him over to the wall shackles, whilst the other yanked his pants around his ankles. “You can stay here with your junk hanging out for everyone to see, seeing as you like to show it off so much; you animal!” snarled Amycus.

 

Hermione quickly pulled a metal flask out of her handbag and held it up to Harry’s mouth. “It’s just water,” she told him hastily. “But hurry, before they see.”

 

He drank from the flask greedily, gulping down mouthfuls of water until there was nothing but air left in the container. Hermione quickly screwed the cap back on and stashed it away in her bag, just as the orderlies were returning to their seats.

 

“Sweet,” a male voice sounded from the table nearby, with the two dark-haired men and the chain smoker. It was the smoker who spoke, and he took another long drag from his cigarette as he spoke. “You’re just about the nicest little girl that has ever visited this horrible place.”

 

“Just ignore them,” muttered Harry.

 

“Rude,” the man replied, and he stood up from his seat, wandering over to where Harry and Hermione sat. He pulled out a chair and sat on it backwards, so that his arms were around the back of the seat.

 

“Barty, leave them alone,” hissed the younger of the two dark-haired men. ‘Barty’ ignored them, choosing to grin in a sharklike manner from Harry to Hermione.

 

“So, you’re the murderer.” His glittering brown eyes settled on Harry.

 

“He didn’t do it,” snapped Hermione quickly, glaring at Barty. “He is the victim of a false charge.”

 

“Sure,” yawned Barty, grinning. “Me too.”

 

“He’s lying,” muttered the older dark-haired man. Barty shrugged. “He murdered his father with bread knife.”

 

“I’m sorry, would you like to join us at the table?” Barty said sarcastically, glaring at his friends. They both stood up and joined Harry and Hermione at the table. Hermione was beginning to feel distinctly uncomfortable.

 

“Is everyone here a murderer?” she whispered quietly, more to herself than anyone else.

 

“Oh, yes,” Barty replied, nodding. He was given a sharp nudge in the ribs by the younger man.

 

“He’s lying, again,” the man held out his hand to Hermione. “My name is Regulus Black, and this is my older brother, Sirius. “We have never hurt anyone. In fact, our reason for being here is not our fault at all.”

 

“Parents were cousins,” sniggered Barty, sticking a hand in his pocket and pulling out a small cigarette case. He glanced at Hermione’s bewildered expression. “No, I’m serious. The authorities found out that dear Walburga and Orion Black were actually cousins, and because of the rising amount of deformities within incestuous families, they decided that it was for the best if Sirius and Regulus were locked up before they had a chance to go mad.”

 

Sirius and Regulus looked between themselves. Sirius pursed his lips beneath his thick facial hair, and Regulus looked somewhat embarrassed, his face and ears glowing pink.

 

“But that’s completely unfair,” Hermione replied. “How can they deem you insane when you haven’t done anything? It was your parents who...who…”

 

“You’re not normal, are you?” One of Barty’s eyebrows had vanished beneath his fringe, and his expression had gone from mischievous to confused. “Why do you care so much about what happens to the maniacs in the Asphodel?”

 

“Because there are human beings in here!” Hermione said, a little louder than she expected. The two orderlies stared over at her, but didn’t come over. She lowered her voice, turning her gaze to Harry. “There are human beings being treated like animals, left to rot in their own waste because there is something not quite right in their brains. It’s __wrong.__ ” She paused, turning back to Barty. “I’m not saying that a murderer is truly human, however—”

 

“—Careful,” Barty smirked, leaning across the table towards her. “You don’t know me, yet.”

 

“I don’t think I want to know you.” Hermione cringed, and stood up from her seat, glancing pointedly at her watch. She’d been at the asylum for nearly an hour. “Look, Harry, I need to go,” she leaned down to hug her friend the best she could whilst he was restrained in a strait jacket. While her mouth was close to her ear, she spoke to him quietly. “I’m going to Rita straight from here, and I’m going to write an article about this horrible place,” she breathed, ensuring that Barty and the Black brothers couldn’t overhear her. “You’ll be out of here soon, I promise you that.”

 

Harry nodded quickly, and Hermione brushed away the tear that was forming in his eye. “Thanks for coming, Hermione.”

 

“I’ll come back tomorrow.”


	3. Chapter Three

** **Chapter Three** **

 

**_**_1993_ ** _ **

 

“Hey, Dahlia. Come and look at this!” Lucinda’s voice echoed through the hallway, bouncing off the tiled walls and floor. Dahlia walked in the direction of her voice, finding her cousin crouched in front of a battered old filing cabinet and sifting through the damp remains of paperwork within the bottom drawer.

 

“Ew, get up from there!” Dahlia demanded, pinching her nostrils shut. The room she had walked into looked like an old office, and the walls were wet and crumbling. It reeked of damp and something stronger. “Is that __piss__ I can smell? Did you wet yourself?”

 

“Don’t be an idiot,” muttered Lucinda.

 

“You are squatting in some hobo’s piss!” Dahlia cackled, clutching her stomach as she laughed loudly. The sound of her laughter echoed through the room, causing some dusty debris to fall from the ceiling. “You are going to stink for weeks.”

 

“Will you just look at this?” Lucinda pulled out a dirty file, which appeared to be the only one in readable condition. “You might find it interesting.”

 

Dahlia rolled her eyes and snatched the file out of Lucinda’s hand. “Fine.” She flipped it over in her hands and squinted at the blurry ink on the tab. “I can’t quite read it…” she muttered, turning it around so she could view it from each angle. Her eyes widened. “Wait...does that say…?”

 

Lucinda nodded. “Barty Crouch Junior. Now pass it back here so I can throw it away.”

 

“No way!” Dahlia replied, hugging it to her chest. “I want to read it. This is the juiciest thing.”

 

Lucinda tried to snatch it back, but to no avail. “I shouldn't have even shown you,” she groaned. “We're not allowed to talk about him.”

 

“What do you know about him?” Dahlia’s eyes were glittering.

 

Lucinda shrugged. “Only a few things that Grandpa Harry told me. Nana Ginny doesn't like to talk about him...after what happened with her friend.”

 

“What happened?”

 

“I don't know, honestly.”

 

Dahlia flipped the file open, glancing at the first page. There wasn't much left in the file that was readable, but a faded sheet printed with the words ‘admission details’ was at the top of the pile. “Barty Crouch Junior was admitted to the Aspiring Asphodel Asylum in June of 1925 for crimes of insanity, aged seventeen.”

 

“Does it say what he did?” Lucinda asked quietly.

 

Dahlia ran her finger down the page. “He used his fist to punch him and a bread knife to stab his father to death. The autopsy report claims that there was eighty-seven stab wounds to the chest and neck, and it is highly likely Crouch Senior died within the first ten severe wounds. Barty was in a fit of rage and didn't stop stabbing and battering his father until his collarbone caved in.”

 

“Oh my God,” whispered Lucinda.

* * *

 

 

**_**_1925_ ** _ **

 

“Get your hands off me!” screamed seventeen-year-old Barty Crouch Junior as he was pulled through a metal door and into a tiled room, where an iron chair was nailed to the floor. He was forced into the chair by the two orderlies that had brought him in, and his hands and feet were shackled to the arms and legs of the chair. The female orderly, Alecto, pulled a large pair of scissors out of her pocket. She used the blades to cut Barty’s shirt, trousers and underwear away from his body, leaving him sitting in the chair completely naked.

 

He shivered in the damp, tiled room, feeling vulnerable with no way to protect his modesty. Bellatrix stepped forward out of the shadows, holding a large, rubber hose between her hands. She nodded to Amycus, who dutifully turned on the tap behind her, where the hose was connected.

 

The water was like nothing Barty had ever experienced before. It fired out of the hose at an incomprehensible speed, firing him at close range and stinging his exposed skin. It was colder than ice, so cold that he was sure icicles were beginning to form wherever the water hit him. Bellatrix sprayed every crevice of his body that she could reach, washing away the dirt, sweat, grime and blood that he had brought in with him.

 

Her ruthless cackle sounded above the water. “Look at how shrivelled the little murderer has become!” she lifted her right hand and waggled her pinky finger. Alecto sniggered cruelly, and Amycus turned off the tap.

 

“You won’t break me,” wheezed Barty, and he laughed breathlessly. Bellatrix’s smirk wavered, and she dropped the hose, lunging forwards with her nails outstretched.

 

“You childish little—”

 

“Matron!” snapped Amycus, grabbing Bellatrix around the waist and hauling her back. She glared at the orderly questioningly. “Remember who he is!” he hissed.

 

“I neither know or care,” she snapped, peeling his hands away from her as though she were brushing away slime. “Did I say you could touch me?”

 

Amycus gestured for her to follow him outside of the wet room and closed the metal door on Alecto and Barty, ensuring that the patient wouldn’t overhear them. “The doctor has requested that we don’t treat this one so harshly.”

 

Bellatrix scoffed. “I refuse to believe that. Why on earth would he request such a thing? The doctor doesn’t care for how we treat them, that’s how things have always worked around here.”

 

“This one is different,” Amycus continued quietly, trying to calm her brewing rage. “The man who was murdered, Crouch Senior—he helped make considerable changes when we were still a Sanitorium. The place was going to go under, and the doctor wanted to reform the building into an asylum, but he didn’t have the funds. Crouch Senior’s wife was a Tuberculosis patient who died before the Sanitorium was shut down, but Crouch was always pleased with how she was treated. So he offered to pay a large percentage to the doctor and the property owners to open the building as an asylum.”

 

“Why do you know all of this?” Bellatrix quipped airily, folding her arms across her chest.

 

“I pay attention to our history.” Amycus eyed her gravely. “You should, too.”

 

“So, what you are saying is because this boy’s dead father helped pay for the asylum, we have to be nice to him?” she sneered.

 

“It just wouldn’t look too good if the media found out that we were bullying the boy whose father put funds into the asylum!”

 

“The father who was murdered!” Bellatrix hissed. “By that pathetic thing there! The public would __love__ to see him getting what he deserves.”

 

“It’s __his__  orders,” Amycus finalised. “He wants Barty Crouch to be a...headstone for the asylum. A __mascot__.”

 

Bellatrix gnashed her teeth together angrily. “Fine. But whatever happens, it’s on your head.”

 

* * *

 

 

Bellatrix rolled her eyes as she read Barty Crouch Junior’s treatment plan, the contents of which had been given to her just a few minutes earlier by the doctor. “Diagnosis: criminal psychopathy,” she read out quietly, as she stood outside his cell door. “Treatment plan: cold bath therapy __once daily__. That’s it? For heaven’s sake!” She clipped the treatment plan to the door and stormed away with her medicine trolley. It seemed that Barty Crouch Junior wasn’t going to be getting the treatment he deserved after all.

 

But she could still take out her irritation for the murderer on the other patients.

* * *

 

  ** _ ** _1993_**_**

 

“Why did he do it?” Lucinda asked Dahlia. They were back out in the hallway of the decrepit asylum now, and Lucinda was perched on a collapsed pillar whilst Dahlia continued to read from the admission file. “Kill his father, I mean. Does it say?”

 

“Barty never told the doctor in so many words why he committed the murder,” Dahlia replied. “But he did talk frequently about his mother and father in the day room.” She began to read from the sheet again. “We documented that Barty held a lifelong and significant dislike for Crouch Senior, due to his mother’s untimely death of Tuberculosis when he was seven years of age.” Dahlia frowned. “Wow, just seven. That must have been __awful.__ ”

 

“I can’t imagine losing Mum or Dad at any age, never mind so young,” murmured Lucinda. “Keep reading.”

 

Dahlia took a breath. “It is my expert opinion that Crouch Junior lost his temper during an argument with his father whilst he was putting together a snack with a bread knife. Barty first cut his father’s jugular, before proceeding to stab him a further eighty-six times in the chest and collarbone area. Crouch Senior was most likely dead long before Crouch Junior ceased attacking.”

 

“Grim,” muttered Lucinda. “I can see why our grandparents don’t like to talk about him.”

 

“But why __do__ they talk about him?” Dahlia folded the admission file and tucked it away into her pocket. “What else did he do? I’m so interested.”

 

“We could always ask Grandpa Harry.” Lucinda offered, but Dahlia shook her head.

 

“Maybe he was friends with Grandpa Harry while he was a patient here,” Dahlia wondered aloud, but she and Lucinda both shook their heads in unison. “No. Of course not. Grandpa Harry would never befriend someone who had done something so awful.”

 

“Unless he didn’t know about it.” The male voice came from behind them, and both Lucinda and Dahlia almost jumped out of their skin. Ezra stood behind them, holding his camera to his face, and the flash went off as they both turned to look at him. “That will be a great picture when it comes out,” Ezra said, grinning.

 

“What are you doing in here? I thought you were too __scared__ ,” Dahlia sneered.

 

“Well, I walked around the building, and there wasn’t much to photograph,” Ezra replied. “I heard you two talking in here, so I figured it couldn’t be that scary.” He looked down at his watch. “After all, you’ve been here nearly an hour. So, what were you reading?” He looked expectantly at Dahlia.

 

She placed her hand protectively over the sheet of paper in her pocket. “Nothing,” she muttered, glaring meaningfully at Lucinda. “Nothing important.”

* * *

 

 

 ** _ ** _1928_**_**  

It was a new day at the asylum, and Harry Potter found himself sitting next to Barty and the Black brothers in the day room once again. Deep down, he was happy that he had __someone__ to talk to, otherwise he was sure he would be standing with the hysterical woman and banging his head against the wall alongside her.

 

He knew he just had to grit his teeth and bear it for a little while. Hermione had left at around lunchtime the day before, and she had promised she would speak to Rita Skeeter. Before long, the story of the horrible conditions of the asylum would be released to the public, and he was sure that the story would soon follow with __his__ story — how he had been wrongly accused of murdering his parents. He would be able to leave this horrific place and put his mother and father to rest, and then get on with his life.

 

It was these thoughts that was getting him through the day. If he thought anything more negative, Harry was positive that he would lose his mind.

 

He no longer had to be kept in a strait jacket whilst he sat at the day room. Matron had pumped one of his veins with a large syringe of something thick and clear, and he had been feeling rather thick and clear himself ever since the drug was administered. The day room door was locked, an orderly stood by each wall, and all of the patients were either too tired from the drugs or too tightly strapped to their seats to even consider making a break for it.

 

“You know,” Barty started, as he pulled a pre-rolled cigarette from behind his ear and popped it into his mouth. “You’re the youngest patient that has ever been sentenced here.” He pulled a lighter out of his pocket and lit the end of his cigarette, inhaling deeply. Harry furrowed his brow as he watched Barty pocket the lighter. Through the thick fog in his brain, he wondered how Barty had been allowed to keep something like that. The majority of the patients who could walk around smoked, and they all went to the orderlies when they needed a cigarette lighting. It was up to them whether they were given the luxury to smoke or not. “Really,” Barty continued, misinterpreting the confusion on Harry’s face. “I was seventeen when I was sentenced. Regulus and Sirius were already here, but Reg was only sixteen. And I’ve seen the log book for patient admission details since the Asphodel was opened as an asylum in 1916.”

 

Again, Harry furrowed his brow. How would Barty be allowed to see such a thing? “Why were you reading the log book? Are we __all__ allowed to look in there?”

 

Sirius sniggered, but Barty’s expression didn’t change. “I just asked the reception lady if I could see it. She got it out for me, I read it, gave it back.”

 

“Don’t try it,” Sirius interjected, his voice deep. “Barty has __special privileges__. Only he doesn’t like to be reminded of them, right, Barty?”

 

Barty rolled his eyes.

 

“Why do you have special privileges?” Harry’s heart leapt hopefully. “Are you allowed to leave the asylum?” he asked suddenly.

 

“Don’t be stupid!” Barty hissed, stubbing his cigarette out on the inside of his palm. He didn’t even flinch, but Harry cringed inwardly. “It’s just little things. I don’t get whipped by the orderlies. Matron shouldn’t really be a bitch to me, but she still is. They don’t pump me with that barbiturate shit. I can shave when I want. I get clean clothes while the rest of you have to rot in your own muck for days on end.”

 

“But that’s not fair,” Harry said quietly.

 

“I know, but that’s life.” Barty shrugged. “And before you ask why, I don’t know, okay? It’s been like it since I got here. My dad gave the doctor some money when he wanted to turn the place into an asylum. That’s all I know.”

 

“But,” Regulus started. “It’s not all bad. Barty operates a…” he looked at Barty, as if for permission to keep talking. Barty nodded slowly — apparently he trusted Harry to keep a secret. “...call it a store of sorts.”

 

“My little shop of horrors,” sniggered Barty. “You do something for me, I give you something that my privileges allow me. Clean slacks, socks, pants. Cigarettes. Anything from the outside of these walls, I can probably get it for you. As long as we’re being reasonable — it’s unlikely that the pretty reception lady will sneak a revolver within the walls, if you get my drift.”

 

“And the orderlies don’t notice if we’re wearing clean clothes or smoking new cigarettes?” Harry questioned.

 

“The orderlies don’t care because they don’t want to have to blame me for it,” Barty muttered gruffly. It was obvious to Harry that he didn’t like to dwell on his ‘privilege’. “So, what do you need?”


	4. Chapter Four

** **Chapter Four** **

 

**_**_1928_ ** _ **

 

* * *

 

The Queen Victoria Tea-room was a high-end dwelling, somewhere Hermione never imagined that she would be sitting down for afternoon tea. Unfortunately, she had been trying for days to get a private meeting with her boss, Rita Skeeter, and Rita had finally agreed—though only if Hermione procured a reservation at the Queen Victoria.

 

It was only polite that Hermione would pay for the bill too, seeing as she was the one who was so desperate for the meeting. It would cost nearly her entire week of inadequate wage just for the two of them to eat lunch here, but Hermione refused to dwell too much on the cost. Harry needed to get out of that place, and so far this was their only method of trying.

 

While she waited for Rita to arrive, Hermione looked around the tea room. Her father would call the place ‘hoity-toity’, whereas her mother would probably secretly long to visit. Every patron to the tearoom was dressed in their sunday finery, as though they had just arrived from church. Gentlemen were decked out in three-piece suits, their canes on the chairs beside them, while pasty faced valets waited in the quiet corners. The women wore their finest ankle-length tea dresses with thin shawls on their shoulders and strings of pearls around their throats. None of them would dare wear a shabby winter coat like Hermione, and none of them had their frizzy, unkempt hair hanging scruffily around her shoulders.

 

But she stuck her chin in the air whenever someone gave her a rude stare. She was still paying for her tea __and__  lunch, so she wasn’t going to be made to feel out of place __here__. She had sat in worse places—like the Asphodel.

 

The bell above the door tinkled as it opened, and the yellow-blonde head of Rita Skeeter emerged, looking around the tearoom wildly. She spotted Hermione and nodded curtly, before offering her green, fur-necked coat to the busboy. “Nice to see you, Miss. Granger,” she greeted, taking her seat opposite Hermione. She scanned the menu before signalling for a waitress to take their order. “We’ll have two pots of English Breakfast please, along with your finest selection of cakes and finger sandwiches.”

 

Hermione swallowed nervously, hoping that the money she had in her coin purse would cover the bill.

 

“So, Miss. Granger,” Rita continued, adjusting her rose-framed spectacles and leaning across the table. “I read the draft you submitted to me about the Asphodel Sanitorium. Would you like me to be honest?”

 

“Of course.”

 

“It lacked something,” Rita answered immediately. “I mean, I don’t begrudge that the asylum is probably a horrific place—your descriptions of the ghoulish goings-on are just ghastly. But the thing is, dear, many people have visited that place. Everyone knows someone who knows someone who is a patient at the Asphodel, so it’s common knowledge how grim the hospital is.”

 

“Then why do the owners get away with it?” Hermione replied, flabbergasted. “The conditions are just...inhumane…”

 

“Well dear,the lunatics inside that place aren’t exactly __human__.” Rita shrugged at Hermione’s horrified expression. “I just report what the general public are thinking, darling.”

 

“But—”

 

“Darling, nothing is doneabout the conditions because there is nothing __to__  be done. They __belong__  in there, dear. It’s the best place for the animals of society. They’re lunatics, after all.”

 

“Rita.” Hermione reached across the table and grabbed Rita’s hands, causing her boss to curl her lip in faint disgust. Hermione’s hands looked grubby against Rita’s white day gloves. “Please. Just give me a chance to submit this article. I __have__ to write about the Asphodel.”

 

“Why is this so important to you?”

 

“My friend is in there. And he doesn’t deserve to be in there. If I can just get the public to believe that he’s innocent, then—”

 

“ _ _Who__ is in there?” Rita’s eyes were flashing with excitement. “Is it the teenage murderer who killed his parents?”

 

Hermione’s mouth set into a thin line. “He has been accused of murder. It’s not true, he didn’t do it.”

 

“How do you know?” Rita was leaning further forward, as though she could practically pluck the answer from Hermione’s mouth. “Are you…” she took a long, dramatic breath. “ _ _Involved__ with the murderer?”

 

“No!” Hermione was aghast. Rita’s eyes were misted over. Clearly, an idea for a potential story was already forming in her head. “We’re just friends.”

 

“This could be a marvellous tale, dear. A young couple on the verge of marriage, cruelly torn apart by the crime that the boy committed. Girl believes in his innocence, and is forced to take up job with the local newspaper in order to pay for the house they share.”

 

“Ma’am,” Hermione interjected pleadingly. “Harry and I don’t live together. I live with my parents. And I’ve worked as an intern for your newspaper for __months__ — _ _”__

 

“Details, __details__ ,” Rita muttered, flapping her hand. “Yes,” she mused after a moment. “This will make for a __marvellous__ story. Okay, I’ll allow you to write your little article, so long as you focus primarily on your relationship with Harry Potter, the boy who murdered his parents.”

 

“But we don’t have a relationship!”

 

“Then you will make it up!” Rita hissed. “If you want my readers to truly feel for those committed to the asylum, then make them feel for __you__  first! The public loves a young romance, and this is just the kind of thing that will strike into the hearts of our readers.”

 

Hermione slumped back in her chair. There was no way she could get through to Rita now that she had an idea ripening in her mind—but perhaps there was a way she could twist this to her advantage.

 

As Rita rattled on about puppy love and romance, Hermione sat back in her seat to think. In a way, Rita was right. The readers would lap up a story about broken hearts and a pining romance, and perhaps if she gave them that, she could slip in her true intentions.

 

She could unravel a story to place Harry in a depressing light, and then the public would feel sorry for him. Throw in the disgusting conditions that he and his fellow inmates were forced to live in, and she couldn’t see how the readers __wouldn’t__ want to revolt against the asylum.

 

“I’ll need a camera,” Hermione interrupted Rita, just as the waitress was pouring tea. “I’ll take pictures from the inside to support my article.”

 

“Wonderful idea.” Rita looked positively thrilled, her spectacles foggy as she took a long sip of her tea. “My dear, I think we have a story.”

 

* * *

 

 

Harry’s muffled scream rattled shrilly around the windowless room that he was confined to, the sound vibrating on the metal gurney that he was strapped to. He was entirely at the Matron’s mercy, as she had dragged him straight out of his cell to this ‘treatment’ room the moment he woke up, shackled him tightly to the table and stuffed a thick wad of fabric between his teeth.

 

“To stop you swallowing your tongue,” she hissed, poking the fabric far back into the crevice of his mouth. “We wouldn’t want that.”

 

A rubber contraption had been placed on his head, the prongs jabbing into his temples. He plead with Bellatrix breathlessly, knowing what was coming next. This was only the third time since he had been committed to the Asphodel that he had been given this treatment, and he __really__  didn’t want to go through it again.

 

But Bellatrix had only cackled in response, clearly enjoying every moment of his desperation. She turned to the box that the contraption was attached to, and grinned widely as she turned the closest knob up to ten-to-twenty volts.

 

The shock riveted straight into his brain, causing his entire body to seize up and shudder as the electric rode through his body. Bellatrix held the knob still for about five seconds, before finally releasing it, ceasing the shock.

 

The second time, she held it for about ten seconds, but Harry couldn’t be entirely sure. By the third series of shocks, he could barely make out Bellatrix in front of him; she was just an out-of-focus blob sniggering and chattering cruelly to herself.

 

“Bellatrix,” a stern, male voice called from the doorway, and Harry felt relief wash over him as she turned away from the electroshock device. His head was swimming as he lay there on that metal table, his ears still ringing from the shock. But he could make out snippets of what Bellatrix and the unknown man were saying. He wanted to shout out for help, to reach out for the figure, do __anything__ to get the man’s attention.

 

“Electroconvulsive therapy isn’t going to be appropriate for Mr. Potter,” the voice was smooth and calculated. Harry could see through his dizzy vision that the man was pale and dark-haired, and was wearing a button-down doctor’s coat. Was this the doctor he had been waiting to see?

 

“Doctor,” he croaked desperately, but his pleas weren’t answered.

 

“Sir.” Bellatrix replied, her voice very different from how Harry had heard her up until now. It was like a different woman had overtaken Bellatrix’s body, conveniently as this man had arrived. “If you’d write it up, I could take the machine up to thirty volts. Frying the brain __always__ has results.”

 

“I’m taking Electroconvulsive therapy __off__ Mr. Potter’s therapy chart,” the doctor continued, ignoring the audible sigh that Bellatrix released. “Though, that doesn’t mean I am not opposed to it being privately used as punishment to keep the murderer in line.”

 

A rumble of cruel laughter sounded from Bellatrix. “What else do you have in mind, sir?” she asked sweetly.

 

Harry heard the sound of paper being rustled through the ringing in his ears. Bellatrix and the doctor were starting to sound like they were getting further away, and his vision was darkening. He couldn’t fall unconscious before his treatment plan was explained. He needed to know what to expect.

 

“I have been in correspondence with a doctor in America,” the doctor continued. “He has developed a new therapy just last year, which he believes will have exceptional results on our... _ _patients.__ ” He said the word ‘patients’ as though he would much rather use a more derogative term, but he was trying to remain professional.

 

“What is it?” Bellatrix sounded excited.

 

“He doesn’t have a title yet, but it includes injecting insulin over a period of weeks into the patient. He believes that the therapy will cause an intensification of the tonus of the parasympathetic end of the autonomic nervous system and block the nerve cell, which will strengthen their ability to recover. In short, the coma that the insulin should induce should __jolt__ the patient out of their lunacy.”

 

“I see.”

 

“However, the therapy must be tested on a hardy body. Do you think that Mr. Potter could sustain the treatment?”

 

“Of __course.__ ” Bellatrix’s heels clicked on the ground as she returned to Harry’s side. He became vaguely aware that she was patting him on the head, as though he was a pet dog. “Aren’t you lucky! You’re going to be the first one to receive the doctor’s special treatment.”

 

A sense of dread set deep in Harry’s stomach, and he finally allowed himself to succumb to the tug of darkness.

 

* * *

 

 

Many hours later, Harry was dragged back into the day by Amycus and forced roughly into his seat, where he slumped over onto the desk. As soon as the orderly walked over to the window to deal with a patient who was urinating on the curtains, Barty sat down besides Harry, sliding a notepad and pencil over to him.

 

“Thanks,” Harry muttered weakly, folding his arms over the notepad. “I appreciate it.”

 

“If I were you, I’d stick those in the front of your pants until you get back to your cell, then find a proper place to hide them. If Matron or any of the other orderlies catch you writing, you’ll be locked in isolation for a week. They don’t want evidence of their wrongdoings being written up as memoirs.”

 

“Was it difficult to get hold of?” Harry murmured, keeping his voice down.

 

“Not really. I slipped out of my room and stole it from the reception last night. I don’t think they’ll miss it, there’s loads.”

 

“They leave your door open?”

 

“Of course they do. They don’t expect the Asphodel mascot to go to the toilet in a bedpan like everyone else.” Sirius had just appeared behind Barty, with his brother on his tail. They both sat down at the table. “You okay, Potter?” he asked, his dark eyes full of concern. “You don’t look so hot.”

 

“They gave me shocks again,” Harry muttered. “That’s why I asked for the paper and pencil. I’m going to start forgetting things, and I can’t let that happen.”

 

“Yeah, because you need to give the information to your reporter girlfriend?” Regulus whispered across the table. “Give it up, Harry. You’ll get yourself killed if they find out. Just keep your head down, and maybe eventually the doctor and Matron will just leave you alone. You can live your life quietly, like we do.”

 

“And what a life that is,” Sirius muttered sarcastically, rolling his eyes. “Ignore him, Harry. I think you’re just what this place needs.”

 

They were silent for a short while, as Amycus patrolled the area close to their table. Barty smoked breathily, and Sirius and Regulus stared blankly into space, not making eye contact with the orderly. Harry kept his eyes down and his arms firmly planted over the notepad.

 

“Do any of you know what insulin is?” Harry whispered once Amycus had vacated the vicinity.

 

Sirius and Regulus shook their heads, but Barty looked apprehensive. “I don’t know what it is, exactly,” he started. “But my father was diabetic. The nurse he saw told him that it was because he had a lack of insulin in his body, or something.”

 

No one spoke. The fact that insulin was so unknown amongst the three of them scared Harry. He had no idea what the doctor planned to pump into his body or what the effects would be, and it seemed that the doctor didn’t really know, either.

 

As they sat there, he began to sweat profusely, and the backs of his eyes stung with tears.

 

Why was this happening to him?


	5. Chapter Five

** **Chapter Five** **

 

**_**_1891_ ** _ **

 

A small, dark-haired boy crouched behind a quilted loveseat, hiding in the dark so that his parents wouldn’t spot him. He was eavesdropping upon his father arguing with his mother, which was a common occurrence.

 

For weeks, the little boy had been sure that he was the cause for his mother and father arguing so much, and he was desperate to learn more as to why they quarrelled so much.

 

His father swayed in the centre of the drawing room, pointing across the room to his mother. The man used to be handsome, and the ghost of his good-looking older self could be glimpsed through his thinning, grey-streaked hair and lined, ageing face. The painting of man and wife on the mantle looked nothing like the two middle-aged people in the living room.

 

Merope Riddle had been small and dark, fairly plain for a woman, but she had distinguishable features. A beauty mark on her upper lip, shiny hair, and bright, happy eyes, and swollen with the telltale signs of early pregnancy. She was much more excited to marry him than he was to marry her.

 

Thomas Riddle was tall and slim, with an angled face and sharp, high cheekbones. He smiled for the artist who was painting them, but the smile didn’t quite meet his eyes.

 

The small boy knew of the rumours that had followed after his mother and father married. Merope had come from a poor family that had fallen from noble grace, whereas Thomas was the heir to a vast fortune. No one knew why he had chosen to marry Merope, when he had originally been married to an aristocratic young woman by the name of Cecilia. Whispers began to circulate, remarks about enchantments and sorcery. Merope was accused of witchcraft, and Thomas had been instantly disowned from his noble family, with all hope of receiving an inheritance dashed. No one wanted to accept the truth; which was that Thomas had gotten a peasant pregnant, and then felt he was forced to marry her.

 

He fell into a drunken stupor after that, soon losing his job with the bank and struggling to provide for his family or pay for the upkeep on their home. Thomas had been granted the house by his family long before he had married Merope, and as Merope had been with child, they didn’t see fit to revoke the house from his possession. The large, stately Riddle manor was already paid for a long time ago, but Thomas couldn’t keep it decorated or clean with no money, much less put food on their table.

 

“Please calm down, Thomas,” Merope whispered desperately, her eyes flashing with fear. “It was only a suggestion. I just want things to go back to how they used to be…”

 

“You wish for me to see that __doctor__ again _ _,__ woman?!” Thomas jeered, throwing the glass bottle he was holding against the wall. It was half-full with whiskey when it shattered, soaking straight into the vintage wallpaper. “You wish to see me be stabbed in the temples again, and allow that man to bleed out my brain?!”

 

“He was just trying to help you, darling,” Merope’s voice was soothing, but Thomas was uncaring. “That’s how they medicate those who have ailments of the mind—”

 

“—You think I am crazy!” Thomas cackled ruthlessly, and the small boy cowered, terrified of the mania in his father’s eyes. “I was a good man once, woman. Before I met you and you sucked away all the life from my person!”

 

“Thomas, you’re not thinking straight,” Merope pleaded. “I love you. You love me. We love __each other__.”

 

“I have never loved you!” he screamed, spraying spittle in Merope’s face. “I fell prey to your whorish temptations. You pulled me in and deliberately fell pregnant to entrap me.”

 

“I did no such thing!” Merope cried.

 

Thomas let out an ear-splitting screech, grabbing his temples suddenly. “I am bruised from those fucking leeches sucking at my blood! All because of a witch-doctor __you__ made me go and see! I’m suspected of lunacy by all of our neighbours. It is all your fault!”

 

“Thomas, please calm down. You’ll wake our son,” Merope begged, daring to lay a hand on his arm. He batted her away roughly.

 

“My son,” he sneered. “That boy is no son of mine. He is a wisp, and most definitely not cut from my cloth. You insult me by naming that bastard after me, as he will not live up to my expectations!”

 

The little boy gasped at his father’s vindictive comments, clasping his hands over his mouth. As fat tears began to roll down his cheeks, his father went into a violent rage.

 

He grabbed the crystal decanter that sat on a nearby table and smashed it roughly against the wall, causing his hands to bleed from the shards he was gripping. He then turned to face his wife, clutching the hilt of the decanter.

 

The little boy buried his face into the loveseat as he heard the sickening sound of glass meeting flesh. He dared to take a peek when his mother released a scream, and was met with the image of his father plunging the shards of crystal over and over again into his mother’s chest, until blood soaked his face and shirt.

 

When Merope was no longer moving, the little boy felt his heart breaking. She lay like a statue on the floor, her arms outstretched and her face turned towards Tom. Her dark, soulless eyes stared directly at her son.

 

The little boy looked back to his father, feeling rage pooling in his stomach. But before he could dare to make his presence known to his father, Thomas Riddle took the makeshift weapon and slid it across his throat.

 

* * *

 

 No less than a week later, Tom Marvolo Riddle stood at the double funeral of his parents. The only people in attendance was his new guardian, an older lady who ran Wool’s Orphanage, which would be his new home, and the priest who spoke solemnly as the coffins were lowered into the ground.

 

As the twin mahogany boxes, which had been secretly paid for by Tom’s maternal grandmother, were lowered into the ground, Tom glared at the coffin that held his father’s body. He silently cursed the lunatic who had murdered the only woman that he had ever cared for.

 

“They will pay. They will all pay,” he muttered, clenching the hand that was tucked in his guardian’s.

* * *

 

 

**_**_1928_ ** _ **

 

Hermione took a deep breath as the matron entered the office where she was waiting, and took a seat opposite her. Matron Bellatrix looked bored already, and Hermione hadn’t even started speaking yet.

 

“Thank you for seeing me, Matron.” Hermione smoothed out her skirt across her knees. She was wearing her finest dress suit; a houndstooth skirt and blazer that her father had bought her when she secured her job with the newspaper. She rarely pulled it out of the wardrobe, as it had been so expensive—but Hermione __really__ wanted a chance to have access to the asylum. She hoped that the matron would be impressed by her choice of attire.

 

But Bellatrix didn’t even seem bothered that Hermione had made the effort to wear hose that didn’t have holes. “I hope this won’t take long,” she drawled. “I’m very busy, you see.”

 

“Not at all,” Hermione replied quickly. “I’ll be as quick as I can. I’m here to request access to the hospital, so that I might be able to walk around and gather information about this place. I am writing an article, you see. About...about…”

 

“About?” Bellatrix lifted an eyebrow, her eyes glinting suspiciously.

 

Hermione’s eyes landed on the wooden beams above Bellatrix’s head. “Architecture,” she lied smoothly. “I’m writing an article on architecture. I’m very interested in the history of this building.”

 

Bellatrix was quiet for a long time, staring at Hermione silently. She felt uncomfortable under her penetrative gaze, but she was determined to stare back, not allowing their eye contact to break. Hermione hoped that Bellatrix was coming to a decision that would make it easier for Hermione to get access to the asylum. She really didn’t want to have to break the law by sneaking in, but she would do whatever she had to in order to save Harry.

 

However, when Bellatrix finally opened her mouth, nothing came out except a stream of cruel laughter. “I’ve heard that story many times, Miss. Granger,” she sneered, folding her arms. “It’s always something. __‘I want to look at the architecture,’__ they say. __‘I want to see how your kitchen operates.’__ Blah, blah, blah.”

 

“I don’t understand.”

 

Bellatrix stood up and planted her palms on the desk, leaning across to glare at Hermione. “Understand this: you are not granted access to this asylum. This is an institution for the insane, not a museum for you to gander at.”

 

“I don’t want to __gander__ —”

 

“—Due to your suspicious activity,” Bellatrix continued, talking loudly over Hermione. “I will be banning you from visiting the asylum again. An orderly will take your picture on the way out, and it will be placed in the reception so that everyone knows your face.”

 

“This is preposterous,” Hermione exclaimed. “I have done nothing except ask for your express permission to view more parts of this building than the Day Room.”

 

“I don’t trust you, and neither does the doctor.”

 

“But I haven’t met the doctor.”

 

Bellatrix smirked. “The doctor does not permit __any__ kind of writer or journalist inside this building. Our patients are too vulnerable to the toils of the outside world, you see. Now, I would have to ask you to leave.”

 

“I have a visitation with Harry today,” Hermione explained quickly. “You can’t ban me from a visitation that I already have.”

 

Bellatrix’s lip curled. “Unfortunately the doctor made an impromptu appointment with Mr. Potter. He will be unavailable for visitation today. He sends his apologies.”

 

Hermione clenched her teeth together. “I’m sure he does.”

 

* * *

 

 

The room that Harry was laid in was circular and full of bright, blinding light. It had been so long since his eyes had been exposed to proper sunlight, that he felt extremely sensitive to its glare.

 

It took him a few moments to realise that he was in a room with an enormous skylight, probably one of the topmost rooms of the asylum. The smell of disinfectant stung his nostrils, and he realised that he was once again lying on a metal gurney. Something tight was pulsing on his left arm, and he jerked his head to the side.

 

In the bright light, he was met with the foggy outline of a man in a long white coat. “Twenty-two over eighty-three,” he muttered, and then something grew tighter around his arm. The doctor was yanking something elastic around his upper arm, causing the blood to swell to his arm. “Ah, Mr. Potter. I see you’re awake.”

 

“Where am I,” Harry mumbled groggily, turning his head left and right. It was taking a long time for his eyes to focus correctly. “What are you doing to me?”

 

“I regret that this is the first time we meet,” the doctor continued smoothly, and Harry tried to focus on his face. He had dark, narrow eyes and a sharp jawline, with a head that was covered in a neat sweep of jet-black hair. Under other circumstances, Harry might have seen him as a gentleman who took great care in his appearance. “But I am a very busy man. My name is Doctor Tom Riddle, and I am in charge of this institution.”

 

“What is going on?” Harry felt something sharp prick his forearm, and he watched as the doctor pushed a needle into his arm, followed by a plastic cannula. His eyes travelled along the long, thin tubing, seeing that it was attached to a glass bottle that was hanging from a drip stand, turned upside down and filled with a clear liquid. The doctor turned a tiny metal dial on the tube, and the liquid began to drip out of the bottle. “What is that?”

 

“I am fed up of listening to your blathering already,” the doctor’s voice was suddenly harsh and cold, and he loomed close to Harry’s face. “I’m going to shut you up for a while.”

 

“What have I done wrong?” Harry begged to know, though he already knew the answer.

 

“You’re a lunatic, Mr. Potter.” Tom Riddle adjusted the drip and stood back, watching the insulin slowly make its way into Harry’s veins. “This is exactly what lunatics deserve. I have put my entire life into the science of the psyche, and I am going to win the war on lunacy, once and for all.”

 

“You’re insane,” Harry murmured, his eyesight beginning to blur and warp. “I’m not a lunatic. I don’t deserve this.”

 

“Shh now, Mr. Potter. It’ll all be over soon.” As the room began to swirl and grow dark, Harry became aware of the doctor laughing. A cruel, mirthless sound, that reached every crevice of his brain as he was forced into sleep.


	6. Chapter Six

** **Chapter** ** ** **Six** **

 

**_**_1_**_** **_**_928_ ** _ **

**_**** _ **

Hermione cringed as she misjudged her footwork and stepped straight into a puddle. It was the middle of the night, and it had been raining heavily for the last hour, and it still was. The grassland around the city had turned into sludge, as it always did whenever there was the slightest hint of rain.

 

It was just so unfortunate that the Asphodel happened to stand on the marshiest part of town. Even the path up to the main doors was barely visible through the mud and rain, not that Hermione had any intentions of using the path. She was sneaking around the grounds in the middle of the night for a reason — in order to locate another entrance into the hospital. She had a large, cumbersome camera in the purse that was swinging on her arm, and she was determined to snap some incriminating pictures that would make sure Harry was released.

 

Hermione had been so agitated after her visit earlier in the day that she hadn’t even been home to change. She was still wearing her fancy hounds-tooth suit and expensive shoes, and she was beginning to regret that decision. Her father was going to be extremely disappointed if she couldn’t clean the mud off.

 

After seemingly trudging through the swampy grounds for hours, Hermione finally found a set of double steel doors at the back of one of the far buildings. It was set down a ramp, low into the ground. The rainwater was gathering at the foot of the stairwell and seeping underneath the steel door. Hermione hurried down the slope, desperately hoping that it was unlocked.

 

She hardly dared to breathe as she grabbed the handle — and almost passed out with relief. It was unlocked. She swung it open and stepped inside, leaning against the door slowly so that it wouldn’t make a noise as it closed. She looked into the darkness ahead of her — she seemed to be in some kind of tunnel. Remembering that the hospital used to be a Sanatorium, she assumed that the wide tunnel must have been for wheeling out the deceased tuberculosis patients.

 

Knowing that it could only lead into the hospital, Hermione started walking through the tunnel. Eventually she saw dim light up ahead, and she slowed her walking. She didn’t want to alert anyone who might be in the room of her whereabouts.

 

Another set of steel doors loomed ahead of her. Hermione soon realised that her good luck had stretched thin — this door was locked up tight. Groaning inwardly, she peered into the keyhole, wondering if she could pick the rusty old lock. She reached into her hair and pulled out a bobby pin, sticking her index finger to separate the two prongs. Deftly, she jiggled the makeshift lock-pick into the rusty old lock. It took a few minutes, but eventually the lock made a satisfying click.

 

Hermione grinned, tucking the bobby pin back into her hair. It was a skill that she had learned from some of her fellow employees, and one that Rita secretly supported. As long as she got her story, she wasn’t bothered what dirty work her employees got themselves into.  

 

She pushed the door, but it didn’t budge at first. After a couple of rough shoves into the door, it finally propped open enough for Hermione to squeeze through. The room she fell into seemed to be an old storage room. It was full of boxes, broken wheelchairs, bedpans and shabby old mattresses. The door that Hermione had come through had originally been concealed by a stack of the thin mattresses, and Hermione quickly pushed them back against the door to prevent anything looking out of the ordinary.

 

Once she was inside the body of the hospital, she scurried through the dark corridors, making sure to stay in the shadows. It was a vast building, and if the hospital had been silent, she might have had a harder time finding her way to the men’s wards. A steady echo of wails and screams pulsed through the corridors, and Hermione followed the sound of the deeper, more gruff-sounding voices. Thankfully, the first ward she came across was a male ward, and according to the screaming ‘DANGER!’ sign nearby, it housed the criminal patients. This one was sure to be home to Harry, and Hermione’s heart sunk as she imagined the degenerates that would be neighbouring her friend.

 

Taking a deep breath and hoping that the patients within the ward were all asleep, Hermione crept through the heavy door. The ward was a long, wide corridor, with doors leading to cells on each side. There was one door at the very other end of the corridor, and Hermione had the awful feeling that Harry would be in that cell. It would be just typical that she would have to creep past twenty or so cells before reaching the one she needed.

 

Despite being curious about the other patients, Hermione muscled on through the corridor, determined to check out the one furthest away first. There was no doubt in her mind that she would get some horrific pictures of the patients in the cells; she could smell urine, faeces, and worst of all, the metallic twang of blood. She knew the conditions would be dreadful, and there was more than enough material here to shut down the entire hospital — but she couldn’t risk snapping a picture of anyone other than Harry. The flash could awaken the entire ward.

 

When she finally reached the final cell, she stood on her tiptoes so she could peek through the small square hole in the door.

 

She gasped in horror. Her intuition had been right — Harry was in that cell. Her heart lurched horribly for him. There was nothing humane about his incarceration. Hermione didn’t know what she had been expecting, but she didn’t think it would be this bad.

 

He didn’t even have a proper mattress or cot to sleep on. Instead, he was sprawled out on a thin layer of straw and hay that was dumped in the corner of the musty cell. His glasses were nowhere to be seen, and his skin was deathly pale and had an almost yellow tinge. He was wearing nothing except for his underpants, and judging by the goosebumps all over his skin, he was freezing in the cold cell.

 

“Harry,” Hermione hissed, hoping that he would wake up. He didn’t move. She could see his chest rising and falling slowly — a little too slowly — but she knew there was definitely something wrong with him. What kind of treatment had he been put through to land him in such a sorry state?

 

“Who’s out there?” a low hiss sounded from a cell somewhere behind Hermione. She needed to hurry up.

 

“It’s a girl!”

 

“Oh, a pretty lady.” A series of wolf whistles began to bounce off the walls as Hermione rolled the dial on her camera and positioned the flash.

 

“Hey, sweetie. I’ve made you a present, want to see?” Hermione turned instinctively to the nearest cell, and saw a pair of manic blue eyes peering through the hole in the door. Suddenly, he slapped a hand to the door, and something brown flew out of the hole, narrowly missing Hermione. As the smell filled her nostrils, she knew what the inmate had just thrown at her.

 

“Come on, ‘Mione,” she mumbled, lifting the camera up to her face with shaking hands. She pointed the lens through the hole in Harry’s cell door and focused the camera on his limp frame. Slowly, she pressed the button, hardly daring to breathe.

 

A sharp tap on her shoulder surprised her. Hermione spun around before she thought to drop the camera, and the last thing she saw was the cruel smile of Matron Bellatrix, flashing madly in the light of the camera.

 

Then, everything went black.

 

* * *

 

 

The next day was bright and sunny, a sharp change from the miserable weather the night before. A man dressed in a slick black suit looked oddly out of place in the summery neighbourhood where he stood, in front of a pleasant, chocolate-box style cottage.

 

The man was tall and had platinum blond hair, which was long and tied with a velvet ribbon at the nape of his neck. Despite the warm weather, he wore a scarf tied loosely around his neck and a pair of woollen black gloves. He carried a briefcase in one hand and a long, ebony cane in the other, with a silver handle that was engraved to look like the scales of a snake. He used the handle of the cane to rap loudly on the red painted door.

 

A man with dark brown hair and crinkled hazelnut eyes answered almost immediately. “Can I help you, sir?” he asked quizzically, after he had absorbed the severe impression that the blond man was making.

 

“May I come in?” drawled the blond, nudging the door open further with his cane and sweeping into the house. “My name is Mr Lucius Malfoy. Would you be Mr Granger?”

 

“ _ _Doctor__ Granger,” Dr Granger corrected, though he was smiling good-naturedly as he spoke. “Please, take a seat at the dining room. What is the nature of your visit, today? I usually see patients down at the clinic…”

 

“Please fetch your wife, Mr Granger,” continued Malfoy coolly. “I assure you I’m not here to discuss my dental hygiene.”

 

Dr Granger nodded, his eyebrows raising slightly at Lucius Malfoy’s rude manner. “Honey,” he called out. “Please come down here, there’s a man here to see us.”

 

Mrs Granger entered the room almost immediately, dressed smartly in a grey blazer and matching skirt. She had a short apron around her waist, the pocket of which was filled with various dental equipment. She was removing an earring as she walked through into the dining room, and she looked taken aback by Lucius Malfoy.

 

“Please listen carefully, as I don’t have all day. I have many other people to see. Now, are you the parents of Miss Hermione Granger?”

 

Mrs Granger clutched at her husband’s arm suddenly. “Do you know where she is? She didn’t come home from work last night.”

 

“I am the field assistant of Dr Thomas Marvolo Riddle, a renowned psychiatric doctor who runs the Aspiring Asphodel Sanatorium. You may have heard of his practices in your field of work.”

 

“Are you a doctor as well, sir?” questioned Mr Granger, and Lucius shook his head with a short chuckle.

 

“No, no. I am an old friend of the doctor. I have worked with the Asphodel for a long time. My job is to ensure that the patients receive the best quality of care during their stay at the hospital,” he paused and reached for his briefcase, placing it on the table and unclipping it. “And that the correct documentation has been signed when a minor has been admitted.”

 

“I’m sorry, what does this have to do with our daughter?” Mrs Granger spluttered, colour rising in her cheeks. Lucius pursed his lips, appalled at the audacity of a woman questioning him when he had not spoken directly to her. He turned his attention back to Dr Granger.

 

“I wonder if you have learned of your daughter’s recent unhealthy obsession with hospital?”

 

Dr Granger shrugged slightly. “She has mentioned it. Her friend has been admitted there recently, you see, and she has a lot to say about the nature of his incarceration.”

 

“Unfortunately, Miss Granger’s inability to keep her mouth shut has landed her in a great deal of trouble,” pressed Malfoy, his pale eyes glittering menacingly. “Just last night, your daughter was discovered trespassing in the hospital after she had earlier been banned from returning due to the doctor’s worry that she may be trying to glean compromising information from vulnerable patients. She was found in the ward containing the most dangerous male patients, attempting to take a photograph of one of the inmates.

 

The Matron gave her a bed for the night and requested that the doctor assessed Miss Granger that night. I’m afraid to say that he has insisted that she isn’t well enough to return to society just yet, and believes she would benefit a long-term stay in the hospital.”

 

“What on earth does he think is wrong with Hermione?” shouted Dr Granger suddenly. “This is ludicrous. This is an outrage! I demand that she be released at once!”

 

“Dr Riddle has diagnosed Hermione with early onset menstrual Hysteria.”

 

“Ridiculous,” scoffed Mrs Granger.

 

“I do request that you sign this paperwork that I have brought with me,” Lucius spread out a large number of papers in front of the Grangers. “Doing so will sign Miss Granger into our care for as long as it takes to cure her of her Hysteria.”

 

Dr Granger folded his arms and glared at Lucius. “It simply isn’t going to happen, sir, so I suggest you leave my house at once. We will head over to the hospital right now and have Hermione removed from that—that __madhouse!”__ He jumped up from his seat, but Lucius reached his feet quicker. He pressed the handle of his cane sharply into Dr Granger’s shoulder, forcing him to sit back down.

 

“I feared you may say that,” he sneered, slowly returning to his seat as well. “So I hope I might be able to change your mind.”

 

“There isn’t a chance in hell,” snapped Dr Granger.

 

“Do your patients know that you are an unmarried woman?” Lucius turned his head suddenly to Mrs Granger. She looked taken aback. “Because that’s something that I was able to easily find out. The pair of you run two separate dentistries in the city, both operating under the same name of Granger. But you simply never had the time to actually marry, due to an unexpected pregnancy and a busy business career for both of you. So, you took the name of Granger just so that you wouldn’t put your patients off coming to have their teeth looked at by an unmarried woman, let alone an unmarried __doctor__.”

 

Mrs Granger’s mouth looked slack, but she didn’t say anything. Instead, she continued to blink at Lucius in shock.

 

“I know that your clientèle are mostly from the higher class end out town. They wouldn’t want to know that their dentist not only isn’t married, but also had a child out of wedlock,” Lucius paused dramatically, and clicked his tongue in disappointment. “It would be such a shame for the future of Hermione’s career if people were to find out that she was a bastard child, and such a shame for your fortune if your business was to be ruined by this incriminating information.”

 

The dentists looked between each other, and Dr Granger finally took his wife’s hands. His eyes were watery. “I don’t think we have much choice,” he croaked. “Perhaps Hermione __is__ acting out a little — a short stay in the hospital won’t hurt her, will it?”

 

Mrs Granger said nothing as her husband used Lucius’s pen to sign his name on each piece of paper. As he stood up and offered to shake hands with the Grangers smugly, she ran out of the dining room, tears spilling down her cheeks.

 

Once Lucius Malfoy was out of the Granger household, he puffed himself up and pulled a small black diary from his pocket. Flipping to the right day, he glanced down at the appointment he had next. It was on the other side of town, with a family called Lovegood.

 

* * *

 

 

  _ _“Hermione.”__

__

The voice at the end of the tunnel was shrill and familiar, but at the same time she didn’t recognise it.

 

 _ _“Her-mi-on-ee.”__ It was a horrible sing-song voice, the way a nasty old nanny would patronize a child. Slowly, Hermione slowly opened her eyes, feeling her head throbbing painfully as she did so. She was reminded briefly of something hard and metallic crashing into the crown of her head.

 

“Ah, you’re finally awake.” The nasty voice sounded less ethereal now, and she could finally put a name to the voice. The shark-like smile of Matron Bellatrix loomed into Hermione’s view. She was hovering centimetres away from Hermione’s face, so close that she could feel the Matron’s hot breath on her face. “It’s about time.”

 

Hermione tried to wriggle out of the way, but she soon realised that she was immobilised from head to toe. Something heavy and uncomfortable was clamped around her temples, her chest and wrists were strapped down, and the Matron was leaning heavily on her thighs. “Wh…what’s going on?” she murmured, her voice sounding strangely thick in her ears. She wondered if she had a concussion.

 

“It’s the last time you sneak around this hospital, Miss Granger,” simpered Bellatrix. “You’re not fit for society, not anymore.” She cackled cruelly and stepped away from the gurney that Hermione was laid upon. She saw a trolley in the corner, where her belongings were piled — her rumpled expensive dress suit, the camera that she had been caught with, and a pair of earrings that Hermione had been wearing. She cringed as she focused her attention on the camera. The back had been ripped off crudely, and the film roll was no longer encased within. It was beyond repair, and Hermione would no doubt have to pay to replace it.

 

Bellatrix saw her looking at the trolley. “Oh, don’t worry. You’ll get your things back once the doctor sees fit to release you from the hospital.” Bellatrix lifted the suit and the camera from the trolley, and dropped them into a nearby dustbin. She picked up the pearl earrings and tucked them into the front of her apron. “Now, your routine,” she cleared her throat and lifted up a clipboard that was at the bottom of the bed. “Meals are at six, one and six. You are locked in your room between seven in the evening and six in the morning. Visitation is currently prohibited, and no therapy has been yet prescribed. You will spend your days in the Day Room with the other patients.”

 

“Room…visitation…therapy…” Hermione croaked, and her eyes widened as realisation set in. “Have I been admitted?”

 

Bellatrix laughed shrilly in response. “Signed over by your parents just this morning. They agree that you are mentally hysterical and in need of urgent treatment.”

 

“No,” whispered Hermione, feeling tears make a steady track down her cheeks. “This isn’t right. This hasn’t been authorised.”

 

Bellatrix flipped a few pages on the clipboard and held out a sheet for Hermione to see. She recognised her father’s signature at the bottom of the page instantly. She opened and closed her mouth a few times, desperately trying to think of something to say — but words failed her.

 

“Welcome to the Asphodel, sweetie. I __do__ hope you enjoy your stay.” Bellatrix cackled as she left the room, the horrid sound bouncing off the walls as she moved further away.

 

Hermione closed her eyes and cried and cried and cried.


End file.
